DOONE. Luxurious dogs, wallowing in—
CURTISS. Prickly heat between the shoulders. I'm covered with it. Let's hope Beora will be cooler.
BLAYNE. Whew! Are you ordered into camp, too? I thought the Gunners had a clean sheet.
CURTISS. No, worse luck. Two cases yesterday—one died—and if we have a third, out we go. Is there any shooting at Beora, Doone?
DOONE. The country's under water, except the patch by the Grand Trunk Road. I was there yesterday, looking at a bund, and came across four poor devils in their last stage. It's rather bad from here to Kuchara.
CURTISS. Then we're pretty certain to have a heavy go of it. Heigho! I shouldn't mind changing places with Gaddy for a while. 'Sport with Amaryllis in the shade of the Town Hall, and all that. Oh, why doesn't somebody come and marry me, instead of letting me go into cholera-camp?
MACKESY. Ask the Committee.
CURTISS. You ruffian! You'll stand me another peg for that. Blayne, what will you take? Mackesy is fine on moral grounds. Done, have you any preference?
DONE. Small glass Kummel, please. Excellent carminative, these days. Anthony told me so.
MACKESY. (Signing voucher for four drinks.) Most unfair punishment. I only thought of Curtiss as Actaeon being chivied round the billiard tables by the nymphs of Diana.